Just Another Girl Alone at the Bar
by Elbowless-Rubber-Duck
Summary: "Oh Ron-Ron, you're too funny," a feminine voice says, giggling. Hermione thinks she might vomit. In which Hermione pretends Tom is her boyfriend until he actually is.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Hermione Jean Granger slumps onto the bar stool, large brown bag swinging onto the counter with a thud. The bartender takes one look at her – frazzled brown curls spiraling off in every direction, slightly smudged eyeliner, blazer shrugged off and haphazardly folded on top of her bag – and pours her a glass of whiskey.

"It's on the house," he mutters as she knocks the drink back. She's a regular customer, used to come in all the time with two rowdy boys and an equally rowdy redhead girl, but he's never seen her look quite so…defeated.

For her part, Hermione hasn't been back to The Phoenix Feather since Ron broke up with her two months ago, desperately trying to avoid any place she might see him with his new girlfriend. But today was an especially rough day, what with her boss telling her to take a week of mandatory leave, so she thought she might deserve a drink or two. Or five.

Most people would be excited, but Hermione had been effectively drowning herself in her work in an attempt to not deal with Ron. Or Harry and Ginny's wedding, for that matter, and what she's going to do when Ron shows up with Lavender – who has a stupid name like Lavender anyway? – and she shows up alone. The wedding is less than two weeks away, though, and chances of finding a tolerable date at this point – McLaggen from work certainly doesn't count as tolerable – are outrageously low.

She's on her third drink when a tall, dark-haired man sits down at the bar only two seats away from her. She doesn't pay him too much attention, just enough to notice that he's wearing an expensive looking suit and the top three buttons of his crisp white shirt are unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of his flawless, marble chest. She also notices that he's devilishly handsome, like a Greek god or maybe a model. She suppresses a snort as she turns back to her drink. He's probably got a head full of air. Not her type.

Not that Ron was exactly her ideal type either.

As if summoned by her very thoughts, Ron's boisterous laughter rings through her ears as the door of the bar is pushed open, a gust of cold air sending a shiver down Hermione's spine.

"Oh Ron-Ron, you're too funny," a feminine voice says, giggling. Hermione thinks she might vomit.

The bartender is at the other end of the bar, and Hermione doesn't want to make a scene. She just wants her check so she can maybe try to get out of here before "Ron-Ron" and the girl who must be Lavender even notice she's here at all. She grabs her things and begins walking towards the bartender, praying that they don't notice her.

"'Mione?"

Fuck.

She turns slowly, lips pressed into a tight smile. Lavender is just as pretty in person as she is on Facebook, not that Hermione checked or anything. Hermione shouldn't be surprised by the slight frown on the other girl's face or the way Lavender tightens her grip on Ron's hand, but those small motions make bile rise in the back of her throat.

"Ron," Hermione says, forcing her smile to stay in place. "And you must be Lavender." She can tell that the other girl is analyzing her to see if she's still a threat. If the twitch of her rose-petal lips is anything to go by, Lavender Brown is very confident that she's in no danger of losing Ron to Hermione.

"Haven't seen you around much," Ron says.

"I've been busy. Work stuff, you know." She has never wanted a conversation to be over as much as she does right now. She just wants to pay for her drinks, go home to her bitch of a cat, Crookshanks, and pretend this meeting never happened. Ron, apparently, doesn't have any issues talking to her.

"Anything other than work going on?" he asks, and Hermione knows where this line of questioning is going. Perhaps the Universe is just taking a huge shit on her today.

"Not much. Like I said, I've been extremely busy." Lavender is almost smirking now, but Ron's expression is worse because he looks like he might actually pity her. It's officially the worst night ever, she decides.

"So you're not seeing anyone, then?" Ron asks. Hermione does her best to keep her expression neutral, but she cannot fathom – cannot even begin to understand – why Ron thinks he has any right to ask her that.

She's about to say as much – though she thinks in her current state it might come out more as "fuck you" – when a warm hand rests itself gently on her shoulder. Her head jerks to see who the hell is touching her when she notices it's the dark-haired man. She almost smacks herself because they've been having this conversation right in front of his chair. He flashes the three of them a polite smile, and good god is he stunning. His grip on her shoulder tightens by a hair.

"Darling, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" he asks. His voice is rich and smooth and deep. From the corner of her eye, Hermione sees Lavender blush. She knows there's blood rushing to her face as well.

"Uhm…"

He smiles at her indulgently, like this is something he's completely used to. He extends his hand to Ron.

"Tom Riddle."

"Ron Weasley," the ginger replies. Recognition lights up Tom's eyes, and Hermione is so fucking confused, because she doesn't know this man who has his arm around her shoulder.

"Ah," Tom says, something akin to humor underlying the tone of his voice. "So you're the ex." Ron frowns.

"And who are you, exactly?" Ron asks, eyeing the way Tom's arm is slung so casually around Hermione. "Hermione's boyfriend?"

Tom smirks. "Something like that," he says, winking down at Hermione. Heat rushes to her face, turning her red as a cherry, as the implication of what he's said hits her. "Well, we really must be going. It was lovely meeting you." He releases his hold on Hermione only to offer her his arm. "Shall we?"

She takes his arm hesitantly, part of her wondering what the fuck she's doing.

"Put it on my tab," Tom calls to the bartender, motioning to Hermione. He walks her out the door before releasing her arm.

"Why did you do that?" she asks before she can stop herself, her words slurring slightly. He raises a brow at her, all pretense of charm gone.

"You and your cohorts were rather loudly discussing your pathetic love life," he says. "Right behind my chair, I might add."

She scowls at him. "My love life is not pathetic."

He snorts. "Remember dear, I've just met your ex. I'd hardly call him quality material."

"Excuse you."

He shrugs. "You have poor taste in men."

Her fists are clenched and she wants to punch him. "You met one –"

"Oh, are there more than just Ron?" he asks, sneering. "It hardly matters anyway. He was the most recent boyfriend, was he not?" Hermione takes a deep breath.

"Thank you for helping me tonight. I'm sorry if I have in any way inconvenienced you," she says, though her words are even more slurred than before. "Good night." She turns, intending to walk back to her apartment – it's not all that far from here – but stumbles and almost falls into the street. She is saved only by a firm grip on her arm.

"Perhaps you ought to get a cab," Tom says.

"I'm fine."

He scoffs. "You don't sound fine. You don't look fine, either." He has yet to let go of her arm, but she's leaning against him as if she can't stand on her own, so he doesn't think it's safe to let go of her quite yet, lest she fall into the street and die. He rolls his eyes. That would be one lawsuit he certainly doesn't want to get wrapped up in.

"I'll be just…fine…swear it…I can walk," she mumbles. He rolls his eyes again and hails a cab.

"Alright, here's a cab. In you go," he says. She doesn't respond and he notices that she's already asleep, face pressed into his jacket. He hopes she doesn't vomit. "Hermione?" He shakes her a little, but she doesn't wake. She's still breathing, though. He can tell because of the faint snores she lets out with every breath.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose before pulling her into the cab with him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Hermione's head is pounding and there's light in her eyes, so she rolls onto her stomach and frowns because her sheets are not this soft and not this free of cat hair. And they are certainly not black. She forces herself to sit up despite the fact that she feels like she might vomit.

She doesn't freak out. It's lucky that she's always been a relatively calm, logical thinker, because this is NOT her room; it's not even her apartment. The walls are white, empty, and the furniture is minimalistic, organized. There are no stacks of books scattered across the floor and half on the bed, not like in her own room.

She stands up, legs shaky, but is relieved to find that she's still wearing her own clothes. All of them. She remembers most of last night, right up until she was arguing with Tom outside of the bar. Everything after that is blank.

The clanking of pots and the soft hum of music coming from another room somewhere in the apartment lures her out of the bedroom. The logical part of her brain points out that she is unarmed and that her massive hangover debilitates her even further against an attacker. She knows it's paranoid to assume the worst, but she's running through a dozen scenarios in her mind. What if she's been kidnapped? What if she gets sold on the black market? What if she's going to be murdered in the next five minutes?

She turns a corner, noting that the apartment is small, the living room barren except for a couch, a coffee table, and built in bookshelves which are stuffed with what must be over two-hundred books. The music has gotten a little louder, and now she can identify it as Italian opera. Of course I'm going to die to the sound of Italian opera, she thinks. That's how it always happens in the movies.

She barely has a foot in the kitchen when she stops dead in her tracks. Tom is at the stove, masterfully flipping an omelet, humming along with the music, wearing nothing but low-slung black sweatpants. She doesn't have time to admire his lean form for long though, as he turns towards her. Her face flushes red at having been caught staring.

He smirks. "Good morning." She narrows her eyes at him as he hands her a glass of water and two white pills. He laughs at her expression. "I'm not trying to drug you. It's just aspirin. For that killer headache I'm sure you have."

She scowls, but takes the aspirin and downs it with a swig of water.

"Omelet?" he asks. When she doesn't answer, he sighs and scoops the egg out of the pan and onto a plate.

"Where am I?"

He raises a brow at her. "I had rather hoped you were smart enough to figure that out on your own."

"Your apartment, obviously," she says. "I meant why am I here?"

"You were going to walk home, but you rather inconveniently fell asleep on my shoulder and wouldn't wake up, so I brought you here since I don't know where you live and put you to bed. Now, would you like to eat something?"

"We didn't…" she trails off, not sure how to finish her question.

He seems to understand, though, if his snort of amusement is any indicator. "Certainly not. I don't take advantage of unconscious women. I get more than enough offers from conscious ones as it is."

Hermione nods and sits at the table. Tom hands her the omelet. "Thank you."

He wrinkles his nose at her. "You should put on some new clothes when you're done eating. You smell like a liquor store got set on fire."

She scowls. "I'll change when I get home."

"No, I insist. Hold on." He disappears into the back of the apartment for a moment only to return carrying a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants similar to his own. He hands them to her. "There's a bathroom down the hall and to your left."

She eyes the clothes carefully. "These will be too big for me. In case you haven't noticed, you're a lot taller than I am."

He rolls his eyes. "Trust me, anything will be an improvement on what you're currently wearing."

When she returns from the bathroom, the hem of Tom's sweatpants are rolled until she's only slightly in danger of tripping on them. There's nothing to be done about the shirt which comes down nearly to her knees except tucking it in. Either way, she feels like she looks like she's swimming in clothes. The only plus side is that Tom's clothes smell like him: a mixture of cinnamon and coffee, which is surprisingly pleasant.

"I can drive you home," he says.

She shakes her head. "I'll take a cab." If she had expected him to argue, she would have been disappointed.

"I'll mail your clothes back."

He shrugs. "Keep them."

"Thanks again," she says. "For everything." She doesn't stay to hear his response, but when she closes the door behind her, she stares at the street. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Her own apartment is less than a block away, so she walks home.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Hermione hates not working. Her mandatory vacation has been a boring purgatory, so far, except for that brief moment of hell when she saw Ron with Lavender, spent the night at a stranger's house, and left with his clothes. She's wearing his sweatpants now, but only because they're very comfortable, or so she tells herself.

On the up side, she's finally caught up with all those episodes of "Fixer Upper" that have been taking up space on her DVR for months now. On the down side, she's out of cheese puffs and chocolate, which means she has to venture out to the supermarket.

She knows it's going to be another rough night the moment she sees a flash of bright red hair in her peripheral vision.

"Hermione. Twice in one week. What are the odds?" Ron says as he approaches her. She just thanks the gods that this time he's alone. The last thing she needs is for Lavender Brown to see her in sweatpants pushing around a cart full of cheese curls and canned cat food.

"Crazy," she says. She continues moving down the aisle, but Ron walks with her.

"It's not weird, with us, is it? I mean, we're still friends, aren't we?"

A large part of her wants to say no because friends don't call each other's' jobs stupid and they don't break off engagements after being together for four years. And they sure as hell don't start dating their gorgeous co-worker only a week and half later.

"Yeah, Ron. We're good," she says instead. He grins at her, and she almost finds it in herself to forgive him. Almost.

"Good. I just didn't want it to be weird at the wedding, you know?"

She hums in agreement and pulls a tub of marshmallow fluff into her cart. She doesn't bother trying to tell him that she's pretty sure it'll be awkward at the wedding anyway.

"I'm glad you have Tom," he says, and Hermione freezes for a moment because, oh fuck, she kind of forgot that Ron thought she had a boyfriend. "Though he doesn't really seem like your type."

Hermione frowns at him, tilting her head. "What do you mean?" Ron had met Tom for all of thirty seconds. How could he possibly know if Tom was her type or not?

Ron shuffles awkwardly as he examines the contents of a bag of trail mix. "He's just very good looking."

Her frown deepens. "And I can't be with someone who is attractive?"

Ron shrugs, not sensing Hermione's sinking mood. "It's just that you're so focused on work and books and shit. I didn't think you'd be interested in a guy like him."

"You don't know him," she says. She doesn't know Tom either, but she knows he's not completely stupid. That still doesn't explain why she's defending him.

"I guess I'll get to know him better at the wedding."

Hermione coughs loudly, half choking on her own saliva. "I'm sorry. What now?"

It's Ron's turn to frown. "He's your plus one, isn't he?"

"Er…well…you see, Tom's pretty busy that day," she says lamely.

"What day am I busy?" a deep voice says from behind her, and Hermione curses her luck because of course he would be here.

"This Sunday," Ron says, unhelpfully. "For Harry and Ginny's wedding. You'll be coming with Hermione won't you?"

"As I said, Ron, Tom is pretty busy that day –"

"But of course I can clear my schedule. I'd be delighted to be there," Tom cuts in. Hermione shoots him a death glare, which he and Ron both ignore.

Ron grins. "Great. We'll see you there." And then he walks off, oblivious to the fucking train-wreck he's caused.

"Nice pants," Tom says as soon as Ron's gone. Hermione is still glaring at him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she asks, arms folded across her chest. Tom grins, and a shiver runs down her spine. She tells herself that she should have brought a jacket with her.

"Well it's not like you had anyone else to go with," he says smugly. He examines the contents of her cart.

"Don't judge me," she says when she notices him eyeing the marshmallow fluff with a raised eyebrow.

"That goes really well on Oreos," is all he says. They walk in silence for a few minutes. He doesn't comment when Hermione snags a bag of Oreos and dumps them into her cart.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't invite yourself to other people's weddings?" she asks when they reach the checkout. For the first time, she looks at the contents in his arms: a box of spaghetti noodles and a handful of assorted vegetables.

He shrugs as the cashier rings up Hermione's items. "Not that I recall. Plus, the way I see it, I'm doing you a favor."

She stares at him, mouth hanging open. "You're doing me a favor? By crashing my best friends' wedding and pretending to be my boyfriend?" She's already paid and the cashier is ringing up Tom's vegetables, but she hasn't moved from the end of the counter.

"If you want it put so bluntly," he says, flashing the cashier a charming smile when he hands her cash. She blushes and fumbles with the register. Hermione can't blame the woman; Tom is remarkably attractive when he smiles.

"And how would you put it?" she asks as the walk to their respective cars.

"You'd be embarrassed to go to the wedding without a date, and since your ginger friend and his new girlfriend both think I'm your boyfriend, it does make sense to show up with me, doesn't it?"

"Well, yes," Hermione admits. She narrows her eyes at him. "But why are you doing it?"

He gives her one of his charming smiles, and she has to admit that the effect is somewhat dizzying now that she's on the receiving end of it.

"Charity," he says simply. She barely notices that he's helping her put her groceries in her car.

Hermione snorts. "Nobody does this kind of thing out of the goodness of their heart."

Tom considers her for a minute. "True," he says. "Come to dinner with me."

"What?" Hermione is staring at him, completely confused. He shakes his head, sighing.

"In return for going to the wedding with you, come to dinner with me. Tonight, my place. You know where it is. How do you feel about spaghetti?"

"But –"

He raises an eyebrow. "We both know you don't have other plans." He looks pointedly at the junk food in the trunk of her car.

"Fine," she says, and then realizes how abrasive she sounds and amends her tone. "Yes. I'd love to."

"Great. I'll see you at seven."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Tom checks his watch for the fifth time in the past two minutes – 6:55. He combs his hair again, adjusts the number of buttons undone on his light blue oxford shirt, and triple checks the table setting. He hopes it's not too formal. He's about to start over with the table completely when his doorbell rings.

"Hello."

Hermione is standing in his doorway dressed in a fitted red dress, her usually unmanageable curls somehow half-pinned up so that they cascade over her shoulder. His eyebrows raise so high, Hermione thinks they might be trying to escape his forehead. Who knew Hermione could clean up so nice, he wonders.

Her face is neutral aside from the slight twitch of her lips as he continues to say nothing. "You're not having an aneurism, are you?"

He snorts and opens the door a bit wider. "Not likely. Would you like to come in?" She allows him to lead her to the table and pull out her chair.

When they're both seated with heaping plates of pasta in front of them, Tom looks up at Hermione, brow creased in false-innocence. She looks back at him, unimpressed.

"So why did you ever date that ginger idiot?" he asks. At the last second, he tacks on, "Out of curiosity."

Hermione chokes on her wine. "That's not really any of your business," she says once she manages to stop coughing.

"You're clearly not mentally deficient," he says, disregarding her comment. "And you're really quite pretty. When you try, that is."

She narrows her eyes. "Do you have a problem with minding your own business?"

He smirks at her. "There's a lot I don't know about you, Hermione. I don't like not knowing things, especially regarding the women I'm pretending to date."

"Is this a common occurrence for you, then?" Hermione asks, eyebrow raised.

He gives her a devilish grin. "But we digress," he says. "You were going to tell me about Ron."

She sighs and shakes her head. "We'd been friends for years and we thought that we loved each other, so we got together. Then we got engaged. But he didn't like how much time I spent at work, and we were always arguing. So we broke up, and he got together with Lavender."

"What do you do?" he asks. It's not the question she expects, and she gets the feeling it's not the question he really wants to ask.

She shrugs. "Nothing terribly interesting. I'm currently consulting on research on middle-English literature at Hogwarts University."

"But you don't love it."

"What?" she says. "Of course I love my job. If I didn't love my job, do you really think my relationship would have ended because of it?"

Tom rolls his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Hermione. Anyone with half a brain can see you and that ginger twat weren't going to last, and not just because of your job. Besides, you need something more than stuffy libraries and dusty books."

She scowls at him. "I happen to love libraries and books."

"As do I," he says, gesturing to his living room lined with bookshelves. "But there's plenty of other things in the world too."

"What do you do for a living, Tom?" she asks and then takes a careful sip from her wine glass.

He smirks. "I work for a company that specializes in rare artifact acquisition for museums and private collections. We're currently working on bringing some ancient Mayan scrolls to a private collector now. All that's left is the paperwork."

Hermione stares at him. "That's incredible."

"Would you like to see them?" He stands and extends his arm to her.

"You mean now?" she asks, eyes wide.

"Yes."

"Of course," she says. He leads her into the living room. She eyes the bookshelves longingly. "There's so many."

He laughs. "You've seen them before."

"But I was hung-over then," she argues. "I didn't get to properly appreciate them."

"Just wait until you see the scrolls," he whispers, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. His hand slides to the small of her back as he guides her towards the far end of the room. He pushes open a panel of the wall – the only panel not covered in a bookshelf – which opens into a small office. On the far side, there is a glass case, and Tom walks her over to it.

"How old are they?" Hermione asks as she stares down at the yellowed paper.

"We're not entirely sure, but probably somewhere around two-thousand years."

"It's just so amazing, you know?" she asks, not even looking at him, her eyes still glued to the scrolls. "It makes me feel so small."

"I know exactly what you mean," he whispers. He clears his throat suddenly. "Dessert should be ready now, if you like chocolate mousse." She turns to him and notes their proximity. If she breathed too deeply, their chests would touch.

"That sounds wonderful." She looks up at him through her lashes and for a moment he can't breathe. Her eyes are brown – they have been brown this whole time, he reminds himself rather stupidly – but this close up he can see the flecks of gold and amber interspersed throughout. He remembers calling her quite pretty when she tries, but now he thinks that maybe she doesn't have to try at all.

"We can go over the plan for Sunday," he says, finally removing his hand from her back and offering her his arm again.

She looks at him, suddenly stern. "Yes, let's. I have a few rules I'd like you to follow."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Tom Riddle has to refrain himself from breaking another one of Hermione's ridiculous "Wedding Etiquette" rules as he holds in a snicker when the groom – Harry, he presumes – nearly loses his glasses while bounding up to the alter a solid fifteen minutes late. Or at least, Tom mostly holds it in, but the sharp jab in his side from Hermione's elbow alerts him to the fact that he must have made some sort of noise.

The ceremony is small, just a few close friends and family, but dear god, the Weasley's must make up for three quarters of the crowd. Tom can pick them out in an instant – all red hair and wild eyes. Hermione has told him that there are seven children in Ginny's immediate family alone, and Tom can't even begin to imagine having that many siblings. He notices that Harry doesn't appear to have any family in attendance other than his two very gay uncles. Hermione doesn't explain where Harry's family is and Tom doesn't ask.

"Fred and George wanted to be the flower girls, but of course Ginny wouldn't let them," Hermione whispers once the procession begins.

"She made the right decision," he comments once he sees the twins. This earns him another elbow to the side, but this one is much gentler.

Ginny is a vision of angelic perfection in her wedding gown. Her hair is mostly loose, only a few strands pinned up with tiny daisies, and her gown flows out behind her as she walks. Harry's eyes go wide the moment he spots her, his mouth popping open to form a little "o". Hermione sincerely hopes that someone gets a picture of his face.

Their vows are short, their kiss is (too) long, and then, hand in hand, they lead the crowd to the giant backyard reception. Hermione is glad they decided to have the wedding at the Burrow. The Weasley's have a beautiful backyard, and it's been set up with long tables and billowing white tents. There are paper lanterns and tea-candles floating in rose water everywhere.

Harry and Ginny approach them almost immediately and Hermione takes a deep breath.

"So this is the man we've heard so little about," Harry says, giving Hermione a pointed look as he shakes Tom's hand. "Honestly, 'Mione, I shouldn't have to hear about your life from Ron."

She rolls her eyes and hugs him. "Don't argue with me on your wedding day," she teases.

"Hermione tells me this is your family home," Tom says to Ginny. "It's absolutely lovely."

"It's a bit small for a family of nine, though," she laughs.

Tom sends her one of his signature smiles. "I can only imagine. I'm sure you have other guests to catch up with. We'll see you later, then?"

"Definitely," Harry says. "It was great to meet you, Tom. I hope we'll be seeing more of you." Once they've gone, Hermione and Tom find their way to their designated seats.

"Why did you have to make them like you?" Hermione asks with fake exasperation.

Tom raises an eyebrow. "I could always propose to you during their reception. I doubt that would endear me to them."

She scowls. "You wouldn't dare."

He pretends to think about it for a moment. "I don't think you had any rules about that, actually."

She smacks his arm playfully and is about to say something else when Tom suddenly places a finger against her lips. She freezes.

"Shh," he says, then nods his head towards the main table where Ron is standing up, drink in hand. "The best man speech is about to start."

-Hhhhhhhh-

"Dance with me."

Hermione looks up, brow creased. "What?"

Tom is standing, arm offered to her. "Dance with me. It's what couples do at weddings." She stands and takes his arm, letting him lead her to the dance floor.

"Really?" she asks, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I thought couples get trashed and go fuck in a spare room somewhere."

Tom grins, hand settling on her waist, and he tugs her closer so that their bodies are flush against each other. "We could do that too, if you want," he murmurs.

She forces a small laugh. "Thank you for inviting yourself as my plus one to this wedding. It's certainly much more enjoyable than sitting by myself."

Tom gasps, feigning shock. "Is that a compliment?"

She laughs in earnest now. "Don't get used to it." The song ends, and Hermione begins to walk from the dance floor, only to have Tom spin her back into his arms as a jazz number begins.

"You didn't think I was going to let you get away with just one dance, did you?" He spins her again with near-professional skill.

"You didn't tell me you could dance," she says breathlessly as his hand finds her waist again.

"You haven't seen anything yet," he whispers, a smirk tugging at his lips. Without warning, he dips her, his lips a mere inch away from hers. She marvels that he can still look this flawless up close, and again, he smells like the t-shirt and sweatpants she took from him less than a week ago: cinnamon and coffee, and something else too that she didn't notice before but can't quite place. Something that is distinctly him.

He pulls her upright, twirls her again, and the song ends.

"That last spin made me a bit dizzy," she says apologetically. Like it was just the spinning, a voice in the back of her head says, images of his lips so close to her flashing in her mind.

He guides her to her seat. "I'll get us drinks," he says once she's safely seated.

"'Mione," someone to her left says, and Hermione jumps as Harry practically appears in the chair next to her. He wiggles his eyebrows. "Enjoying yourself?"

"The wedding is lovely," she says. Harry grins, then makes a show of looking in Tom's direction.

"That's not quite what I meant."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Tom and I are still getting to know each other, Harry." It's not far from the truth, she thinks.

It's Harry's turn to roll his eyes. "Oh please. You don't have to pretend you're not crazy about him. Everyone can tell."

Hermione's eyes bug out of her head. "What?"

Harry laughs. "You've never looked at anyone the way you look at him. Not even Ron." Hermione is about to say something, but Harry shakes his head. "He's great, Hermione, really. Ginny and I, well, we really like him."

Fuck, she thinks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Oh, he's coming back over," Harry says suddenly. "I'll leave you two lovebirds for now."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckitty, fuck.

"Here you go," Tom says, handing her a drink. She doesn't even look at it, doesn't ask what it is, just downs it in one gulp.

She likes Tom Riddle. A lot.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, brow furrowed in concern.

And he's just acting, isn't he? She remembers that night she first met him at the bar, how the moment they were alone he dropped the pretense. He doesn't care, she thinks. She's just entertainment to him.

She looks up at him, forces a smile. "Yeah, great." She stands up. "Um…I'm going to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

He frowns, but lets her go. The moment she walks off, he looks over in the direction she had been staring at and suddenly everything makes sense. Lavender what's-her-face is snogging the hell out of Hermione's ex-boyfriend. Tom's jaw clenches.

Of course. She's still hung up on that bastard.

-hhHhhhhHhhhHh-

"I didn't realize the bathroom had a mini-bar," Tom says later when he's about to drive Hermione home. She's pretty wasted, he thinks, and his lip curls in disgust. Ron Weasley snogging some other girl should not reduce her to this.

"Must've gotten lost on the way there," she slurs. He holds the car door open for her, then climbs into the driver's seat. If Hermione notices the way he slams the car doors, she doesn't say anything.

They drive in silence, neither of them making any attempt at conversation. Tom is still stewing, and he doesn't understand why he's so pissed off. What does he care if Hermione is still in love with her ex-boyfriend? Hell, he doesn't even know Hermione's last name. She's nothing to him.

Except that she isn't, and she really hasn't been since he brought her home that night he met her in a bar.

But it doesn't matter now, because if she's still in love with Ron, then he's not going to get involved. Tom has never been somebody's pity-fuck, somebody's second choice, and he's not about to start now, no matter how pretty Hermione is in her pale blue sundress, or how bright her brown eyes light up when she's looking at him, or how sharp she is.

"What address am I going to?" he asks when they're finally close to their neighborhood. He looks over after a moment when Hermione doesn't respond, and sighs, exasperated. She's passed out again, head leaning against his window.

As Tom lifts Hermione gently from the car and walks into his apartment building, he decides to tell Hermione not to drink so much when she wakes up tomorrow morning.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

Hermione has the worst headache and terrible sense of déjà vu when she wakes up in Tom's room once again. She doesn't remember what she said after she got in the car with him last night, and she prays to whatever god is listening that she didn't say that she likes him.

She walks out into the living room to find Tom sprawled across the sofa, reading one of his many books. He looks up as she comes in and raises an eyebrow.

"Next time you want to come home with me, darling, just ask instead of getting trashed and passing out in my car," he says wryly. She looks at behind him sheepishly, hands clasped her back.

"Maybe I should just tell you where I live," she says with a laugh, and then immediately wants to smack herself. She should stop flirting with him, she thinks, since she knows he won't feel the same way about her. She clears her throat. "I should go. Thanks again, for coming to the wedding."

He nods.

Hermione almost makes it to the door when he calls out, "I'm assuming you'll come up with an appropriate story regarding our break-up."

Hermione feels her throat tighten. She reminds herself that she shouldn't be surprised. It was never real for him, and she was supposed to know that.

"Of course," she says, trying to keep her voice steady, then leaves before she can embarrass herself further. When she gets home, she sits with Crookshanks, puts on the last few episodes of "Fixer-Upper", and dips her Oreo cookies in marshmallow fluff.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"First round's on me," Harry says as they enter The Phoenix Feather. The five of them – Harry, Ginny, Ron, Lavender, and Hermione – slide into the stools at the bar, a shot of vodka is placed in front of each of them.

"To Hermione's new job," Ginny toasts, and they all knock back their drinks.

Hermione winces as it burns the back of her throat. If she had gotten her way, she'd be back in her apartment, already in her pajamas. But Harry thought they should celebrate the new position she'd gotten at a pretty big museum translating old-English and middle-English texts and artifacts. She had agreed to a few drinks, just to appease her friends.

Hermione nearly laughs because she's just called Lavender Brown, of all people, her friend, and it's true. The girl is nosy, a little stuck-up, and clings to Ron like saran-wrap, but Hermione can admit that she's nice, especially now that Lavender has stopped worrying that Ron will go back to Hermione.

It feels good to be back in the comfort of a familiar bar with her friends, Hermione thinks as she's handed a brown glass beer bottle of uncertain origin. She hasn't been back to this bar since she last saw Tom, and that was a little over a month ago. The thought of Tom nearly makes her cringe, so she takes a careful sip from her drink. The way it burns going down makes her think it's part of the "special blend" that they don't sell to just anyone.

She takes another swallow from the bottle and decides that she should really stop avoiding places just because she doesn't want to risk running into certain people. Besides, the likelihood of her seeing Tom is really slim –

"Oh my god," Ginny says from the stool next to her. The redhead's mouth is ajar and she's staring openly. "Oh my – holy fuck-shit. It's Tom."

Hermione's head jerks involuntarily in the direction that Ginny's staring and she curses herself for not being calmer. Nonetheless, there he is, dressed in the same sort of suit she first met him in, sitting at a table surrounded by a handful of similarly dressed people. Co-workers, Hermione thinks, except maybe for the lanky brunette who is rather distastefully hanging all over Tom, half in his lap.

Hermione chugs the rest of the contents of her bottle, says "fuck it" to that idea she had of not avoiding places because of men, and grabs her bag.

"I'm just going to head home," she says to Ginny, who nods in agreement, her eyes still glued to where Tom is sitting. Hermione slaps the other girl's arm gently, drawing Ginny's attention away from the table. "Don't cause a scene." Ginny just nods.

Hermione finally feels like she can take a breath once she steps outside the bar. Not that seeing Tom was bad, she thinks, but she'd really rather not linger on him any longer than necessary. Plus, she doesn't want to think too much about the woman all over him.

"Hermione."

She stops, only five steps from the bar, and turns around. Tom. He's just as handsome as she remembers, even without his charming smile. Something on the inside feels like it's breaking just because of the way he's looking at her.

"Tom," she says, calmly. "I didn't see you." He snorts, and it's so familiar – when did it become familiar, she wonders – that it's physically painful.

"Don't lie to me," he says. "I can see right through you."

A lightbulb goes off in her head, and she realizes now that he must have known the whole time how she felt about him and he was trying to spare her. Not exactly helpful, she thinks.

He clears his throat and takes a few steps towards her. "I heard about your new job. Congratulations."

She frowns. "How?"

He gives her a smirk, the one that always made her a little weak in the knees, even if she never admitted it.

"My friend, Abraxas, is the curator. He told me when they hired you on."

"Oh," she says. She doesn't know if there's anything else to say.

"You're not completely hammered for once, I see," he says, lips quirking slightly.

"No chance of you taking me home and me waking up in your bed again." She freezes as soon as the words are out of her mouth because, God fucking dammit, she really didn't want to say that. It must have been whatever the hell she drank.

"Not because of alcohol at least," he says before she even has a chance to backtrack.

Her face flushes. "W-what?"

He takes another step towards her, closing most of the gap between them. "I'm inviting you to come back to my place," he says slowly.

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "What about the woman in the bar? The one who was basically sitting on you."

Tom runs a hand through his hair, sighing, and Hermione wonders if it's as soft as it looks. Her hand twitches at her side.

"Bella," he says. "She's a fucking nutcase. Thinks we're soul mates or something."

"And naturally you haven't done anything to lead to her to believe that," Hermione says, unbelieving.

"Not a damn thing," he says. "She's already married to one of my employees. I wouldn't willingly touch her with a ten foot pole."

Hermione's eyes softened, but the frown stayed in place. "Why now?"

Tom shrugs. "You're finally over Ron Wizzleby, or whatever his name was."

"I was over him month ago," she argues, not bothering to correct him on Ron's name.

He snorts. "You got yourself piss-drunk at your best-friends' wedding because of him and Lavender. I wouldn't exactly call that 'over it'."

"What? I didn't go drinking because of him," she says, face scrunched in confusion. "Hung up on Ron? As if. He's no good for me."

"That's what I've been saying," Tom shouts, exasperated.

"I didn't need you to tell me that," Hermione says, jabbing her finger at his chest. She points to herself. "I already had that figured out before I even met you."

Tom looks about ready to pull his hair out. "For God's sake, woman."

"Why do you care anyway?" Hermione is shouting now. "It's not as though you're particularly invested in my love-life."

"Well maybe I'd like to be," he snaps. Hermione stops and looks at him strangely. He takes a deep breath. "I want –"

"Tom?"

Hermione glances behind Tom at the woman who interrupted him, and then back up to Tom's face. She's never seen him look so murderous. The woman comes bounding up – Bella, Hermione remembers – and grabs Tom's arm. She curls her lip at Hermione before returning her attention to Tom.

"Tom, come back inside," Bella says, though it comes across as a whine. "You're missing all the fun." He removes his arm from the woman's grasp.

"Bella, it's rude to interrupt someone's private conversation," he says tightly. She looks ready to protest, but he ignores her. "Go back inside and tell the others I'm leaving."

"But—"

Hermione, who can tell that Bella is about to launch into the biggest bitch-fest she's even seen, quickly steps up and wraps an arm around Tom. He looks down at her, surprised by the physical contact.

"Are you ready to go, dear?" she asks, smiling up at him.

"Yes, of course, love," he says. He turns to Bella with a smirk. "Tell Rodolphus I'll see him at work tomorrow, assuming he can drag his ass out of bed." Without another word, he turns, Hermione tucked under his arm, and walks down the street.

They're standing in front of his apartment building in a matter of minutes.

"Do you want to come in?" he asks, voice soft. She bites her bottoms lip, and his eyes follow the movement.

"I don't want to just sleep with you, Tom," Hermione says. "So if that's all you want…"

He chuckles, cutting her off. "Hermione, if I only wanted to fuck you, I'd have done it the night I took you to the wedding." She frowns at him, unbelieving. He sighs and wraps his arms around her, drawing her close. "I thought you were still in love with Ron, and I, well, I may have been a bit abrupt with you because of it."

"But you were just pretending to like me," she says, shaking her head. "It was an act so that my friends would believe you were my boyfriend."

Tom snorts. "Right, so I just make a habit of saving beautiful damsels in distress and inviting myself along to their best friends' wedding as their pretend boyfriend."

She shrugs. "I don't pretend to know what you do with your free time."

He makes a helpless gesture. "I invited you to dinner!"

"You told me to invent our break-up story while I was on my way out of your apartment!" she shouts. "I thought that seemed pretty final."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I thought you were still in love with your ex!"

"So, what? You'd rather be an ass to me than even try to be—"

"Be what? Friends?" He tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear, his hand lingering on the side of her face. "I have no interest in being just friends with you."

"Then…"she trails off.

"Are you really going to make me say it?" he asks, and when he sees she's waiting for him to speak. "I've missed you this past month, Hermione, more than I've ever missed anyone in my entire life. You challenge me, you make me laugh, you're brilliant, you're beautiful, you –mmph"

She presses her lips against his, effectively cutting him off. He responds in full, tangling his fingers in her wild curls and tugging her closer to him. Her lips part and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

After a moment, Hermione seems to remember that they're standing on the sidewalk in front of his building and pulls away. She grins at him.

"I believe you invited me in?"


	8. Chapter 8

To his credit, Tom doesn't fumble with the key at the door. Instead, the door swings open easily, and, in a very gentlemanly manner, he leads Hermione into the apartment. He even offers her tea, and she laughs because it's so perfectly polite and so ridiculous. Hermione couldn't care less about tea right now. If the way Tom's eyes are trained on her lips is anything to go by, he feels the same way.

She grabs him by the lapels of his suit jacket, slides her hands up so that her arms are wrapped around his neck, and kisses him again, more softly this time. Tom smirks against her lips suddenly, and before Hermione can register what he's doing, he literally sweeps her off her feet and carries her into the bedroom, half-throwing her onto the bed and crawling over her.

He divests her of her clothes with an unpracticed ease, not even batting an eye as he unclasps her bra using only one hand. Tom's clothing has significantly more buttons than hers do, and it takes her a moment longer to disrobe him completely. Despite the fact that she's seen him shirtless before, she can't help but admire the fact that he looks like a Greek statue, all smooth, sharp lines. She doesn't get to admire him for long, though, because he's kissing her again and she wants nothing more than to be as close to him as possible.

Fucking Tom is nothing, NOTHING, like anything Hermione has ever experienced. She would dare to call it transcendental, even. Sex with Ron had been…fine; tolerable, she thinks, would be a good word to describe it. But with Tom, every touch, every kiss, is scorching. She holds onto him for dear life, nails dragging down his back, because she feels like she'll fall apart if she so much as breathes too deeply. He kisses her deeply, urgently, like he's drowning and this is the only way to get air. Hermione thinks that she could kiss him forever, and it would still never be enough.

Later, when their limbs have turned to jelly and the room is quiet again, Tom pulls Hermione against him, one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her close, and presses tiny kisses against her shoulders until they both fall asleep.

-HhhhhHHhhh-

Hermione wakes – headache free – just as the sun's rising, thanks to the smell of coffee and bacon. On the bedside table next to her is a folded white t-shirt, and she slides it on before walking out to the kitchen. She's hit with a strong sense of déjà vu the moment she sees Tom standing by the stove in nothing but black sweatpants.

"Good morning," she yawns. He turns and bites his bottom lip, taking in her appearance: dark brown curls disheveled even more than usual, lips still slightly swollen, faint purple bruises blooming along her collarbone and dipping beneath his white t-shirt.

He sets the frying pan down, takes three, long, casual strides, wraps his arms around Hermione's waist, and kisses her fully.

"A good morning, indeed," he whispers once they part. "Bacon?" They sit across from each other at the table.

"We should probably talk about what we're doing," Hermione says after she takes a swig of coffee. "With us, I mean."

Tom quirks a brow at her. "I thought I made it rather obvious last night how I feel about you."

She blushes. "I just mean, where do we go from here?"

"Dinner," Tom says. "This Friday. A proper date this time, not just spaghetti at my place." He pauses, gauging her reaction. "And you could stay the weekend. If you want."

"I would like that," she says, smiling.

"Just one more thing," he says, looking at her sheepishly. "I never did get your last name."

Hermione laughs.


End file.
